Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

Tomorrow I too – this feeling and thinking soul, the universe I am to myself – yes, tomorrow I too will be someone who no longer walks these streets, someone others will evoke with a vague: 'I wonder what's become of him?” And everything I do, everything I feel, everything I experience, will be just one less passer-by on the daily streets of some city or other.

To have opinions is to sell out to youself. To have no opinions is to exist. To have every opinion is to be a poet.

To be understood is to prostitute oneself

But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

To create, I destroyed myself; I made myself external to such a degree within myself that within myself I do not exist except in an external fashion. I am the living setting in which several actors make entrances, putting on several different plays.

Time, which grays hair and wrinkles faces, also withers violent affections, and much more quickly.